


Seven Years

by lilithiumwords



Series: All That Stands Between Us [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Animal Death, Assisted Suicide, Attempted Murder, Character Death, Child Death, Coercive Abuse, Dark, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Morality, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, Graphic Rape, Horror, Implied/Referenced Underage, Language, M/M, Murder, No Underage Sex, Non-Consensual, Non-Graphic Child Abuse, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Physical Abuse, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Racism (Tolkien), Rape, Sexism, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Content, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-27 04:33:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithiumwords/pseuds/lilithiumwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven years before <i><a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/628384/chapters/1136041">Pain-Bearer</a></i>, the Shire was invaded, and Bilbo Baggins was taken as a slave by Azog the Defiler. This is a story of survival in the harshest of conditions, of a Hobbit that gave everything to protect his people and nearly died for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Years

**Author's Note:**

> **_PLEASE READ ALL WARNINGS AND TAGS BEFORE READING THE STORY._ **
> 
> First, this is not required reading for _Pain-Bearer_. You may skip this story if you wish; it is history by the time _Pain-Bearer_ starts.
> 
> This is not a kind story; it is a harsh story about victimization and abuse.
> 
> This is a dark and brutal story with just about every horrible thing you could possibly imagine. This has rape, torture, death, and everything in between. This was difficult to write, and you will find it difficult to read. I have tried to list every warning possible, but even being forewarned will not prepare you for this story. 
> 
> **You might have to stop reading. That's okay. But do not push yourself to read _Seven Years_ if you do not feel comfortable reading anything listed in the warnings or tags.**
> 
> **Warning** : There are **two** scenes of graphic and explicit rape in the first chapter, and mentions and implications of rape throughout the rest of the story.
> 
> Nearly all acts of violence in this story are committed by Orcs toward Hobbits, other Orcs, and other creatures. Some, though, are committed by Hobbits toward Orcs.
> 
> All Orcish speech was taken from [The Shadowlandian Black Speech Dictionary](http://logik.li/black_speech/) and worked into grammatical sentences. All of the bad grammar is my own, and if you are an expert in the language of Mordor, feel free to point out any errors.
> 
> **I recommend reading this story on a computer (versus mobile) because there is imbedded html that allows you to read the meaning of non-Westron words when you hover your mouse over them.**
> 
> **Word Meanings:**  
>  _Âmbal_ \-- Pretty  
>  _Snaga kullat rad_ \-- You are a slave now  
>  _Za ash-izub kulat_ \-- That one is mine  
>  _Rûmol!_ \-- Move!  
>  _Ulu-izub kulut_ \-- They're mine  
>  _Nargraurol!_ \-- Don't touch them!  
>  _Zaz akashuga kulut thrak Azog-tramurz-û_ \-- These hobbits are tribute to Azog the Defiler  
>  _Nûl-lûpûrz-izub_ \-- My pain-bearer  
>  _Skaatol, nûl-lûpûrz_ \-- Come, pain-bearer  
>  _Shaplagol_ \-- Wash yourself  
>  _Flâgît_ \-- Idiot!  
>  _Gothlab honol_ \-- Look at your master  
>  _Narazubizg lat_ \-- I will not kill you  
>  _Nûl-lûpûrz-izub kullat_ \-- You are my pain-bearer  
>  _Dhûlol rad_ \-- Sleep now  
>  _Gothlab Azog kulizg_ \-- I am Azog, your master  
>  _Lat aanizg zam zrii_ \-- You give me such pleasure

The day that Bilbo Baggins' life changed forever dawned beautiful, light fluffy clouds drifting across a brightening blue sky, the warmth of early summer tempting to a young Hobbit who had come of age last year. He kissed his cheerful mother good morning and brushed passed his father's girth, snorting to himself to see his father still in suspenders and a wrinkled shirt, missing his usual green coat. His parents must have been up late last night, and he was thankful he had heard none of it.

Looking back, Bilbo wished he had paid more attention that morning; to Bungo's small smile, to Belladonna's laughter when Bungo leaned in to kiss her neck, to the flavors of his mother's cooking. He wished he had been less exasperated when Bungo cuffed his ear with a chuckle and told him to scamper for a while. He wished he had hugged his mother longer, told her that he loved her, breathed in her scent -- lilac and flour. He remembered that much, but so much of that day was a blur in his memories.

The morning was spent underneath his favorite tree in the woods, reading a rare book on a battle called _The Disaster of the Gladden Fields_. It was quite fascinating to a young Hobbit who dreamed of adventure, and by the time lunch rolled around, Bilbo Baggins had quite an interest in magical rings and the pride of Men.

He shut his book and leaned back against smooth bark of birch, imagining being on that field of fateful glory and destruction. A little Hobbit like him, waving a sword and slicing down Orcs -- or maybe he would stand at Elrond's side and advise the doomed king Isildur. To be part of something so grand...

A rumbling in his stomach caught his attention, and Bilbo sighed as he stood and stretched, a small laugh escaping him as his spine cracked. A good morning, to be sure, and he wondered what his mother had put together for lunch as he began trekking out of the woods toward home.

As he left the shade of the trees, he noticed a strange shadow cast over the sunny Shire, and he looked back to see dark smoke rising in the distance. A jolt touched his mind, but he only looked for a moment, wondering if something had happened. Perhaps a disaster, such as a fire, had struck someone? He hoped they were alright and continued on his way.

But as Bilbo walked, he noticed the dark clouds to the east growing thicker. The sight disturbed him, so he hurried along the path until he came to Bagshot Row, noticing Holman standing at his gate and watching the east with a worried look. Bilbo was so preoccupied with the dark clouds that he only turned pink upon seeing his neighbor-turned-sweetheart, instead of the rosy red his cheeks had been tinted for the past week every time he saw Holman out in the gardens.

"Bad tidings," Holman muttered when Bilbo drew near, and Bilbo reached out to grip his hand briefly. Holman gave him a quick smile, but Bilbo felt the weight of their shared anxiety and chose not to kiss him, even though nobody was nearby.

"Maybe it's just a bakery fire," Bilbo suggested, but the possibility sounded weak to his ears. Fires were put out quickly and never generated so much smoke.

"Maybe," Holman agreed noncommittally. "Meet you tonight?" Bilbo murmured an agreement, and Holman squeezed Bilbo's hand, quick and surreptitious, before disappearing behind his gate. Bilbo glanced at the darkened horizon and shivered, then went up the path to his home.

When he walked inside, his father Bungo was standing at the window, wrinkled shirt smoothed and his vest buttoned smartly, but Bilbo saw the contentment in his gaze and only said hello before he went to help his mother with lunch. Belladonna was frying ham when he walked in, and she kept glancing at the window, where Bilbo could see the darkened sky at the edge of sunshine. He realized with a start that this window faced south; and dark clouds loomed on that horizon, too. What was happening?

"Have you any idea what that might be?" his mother asked, and Bilbo shook his head.

"I haven't heard any news," he replied, and Belladonna frowned.

"It's in the same direction as Tuckborough," she murmured, which did nothing to ease Bilbo's nerves.

"Maybe a summer storm," he suggested, which seemed to pacify his mother, who then ordered him to find some carrots to peel.

Lunch was a quiet affair, the small family's cheer turned dim by the strange circumstances outside. As they cleaned the dishes afterwards, Bilbo washing and Bungo drying while Belladonna sat with a cup of tea, they heard shouting in the distance. Bilbo watched as Bungo's brow furrowed -- his father was properly old-fashioned and hated disturbance of any sort.

"Best to see what the fuss is about," Bungo muttered, tossing the rag to Bilbo and leaving the kitchen. Belladonna watched him but did not rise, and Bilbo returned to his task, trusting that his father would find out what was going on.

Then they heard a scream outside, and a chilling sound -- a high-pitched cry that would burn itself into Bilbo's mind later. A sound he had never heard before, but one that made his mother drop her teacup, her precious Westfarthing porcelain, and jump to her feet, her face turning pale with shock.

"Bilbo, come here," Belladonna said sharply, and she took Bilbo's hand and dragged him through the halls, to the front door where Bungo was turning the handle. "Bungo, stop!" she cried, but Bungo had already opened the door.

Over his father's shoulder, Bilbo saw a tall, twisted, ugly form of a beast, skin mottled grey and white that shone beneath glistening red. He saw armor and a wickedly curved weapon, and he screamed.

_"Bungo!_ " Belladonna shouted, pulling Bilbo behind her, and Bungo tried to close the door again, but the monster shoved it back open and stepped into their home. Bilbo clutched his mother, trying to pull her back, but she was shouting at Bungo, who reached for the umbrella stand -- and Bilbo thought, what good would an umbrella do against this monster?

Then he did not think at all, for the monster raised its weapon and cut Bungo Baggins to death.

_"BUNGO!"_ his mother shrieked, and Bilbo automatically reached forward, _father_ choking his throat, but Bungo fell to his knees and gave a strangled, gurgling gasp. Then he fell over and did not move, and Bilbo felt a strange emptiness, seeing bright red pooling beneath his father's body.

"No," he whispered, but he had no time to think, because Belladonna was dragging him back and pushing him against the wall, using her body as his shield.

"Mama, what are you doing?" he heard himself ask, and Belladonna gripped him tightly.

"Stay behind me, Bilbo," she said, and Bilbo heard her voice shaking, but she stood tall and glared at the monster in the doorway, holding out a fire iron in front of her.

"Orc," she hissed to the monster, and it tilted its head back and laughed. Then it said something in a guttural language that made Bilbo's ears hurt, and all too quickly, all too easily, it was there before them, tossing the iron aside like it was a stick. Bilbo tried to pull his mother back, tried to wedge himself away from the wall, but she would not move, would not let him. He could hardly breathe, she pressed him so tightly, and when he did, the stench of the monster -- the Orc, and how had Bilbo not recognized that fact? He had read of Orcs before -- overwhelmed him.

The Orc then raised its hand, claws curved and speckled red, and Bilbo started to push at his mother, a horrible noise escaping him, fearing her dying like his father -- but the Orc only ran its fingers through her blond curls, staining them red.

_" Âmbal,"_ it muttered, and then it grabbed Belladonna and pulled her away from Bilbo. She fought its grip, spitting oaths and curses, but the Orc ignored her in favor of inspecting Bilbo.

Bilbo was frozen, his eyes wide as he stared up at the monster. He flinched when that bloody hand rose again and grabbed his curls, letting out a cry when the Orc pulled his head up.

"Please no," he whimpered, and he heard his mother shouting threats and begging to let him go, he was only a child, take her instead -- but the Orc did not kill him, only pushed him to his knees and gripped his neck tightly, possessively.

_" Snaga kullat rad,"_ it growled, but Bilbo did not understand and he felt tears in his eyes, felt the terror of death and torture in his future.

But he did not die that day, nor did his mother.

Instead they were dragged, shaking and screaming, out of their home by the Orc, who tied their wrists together and shoved them down the path. Bilbo pressed close to his mother who held her head high as she glared at the Orc who held their restraints. Other Orcs disappeared into their home, and past the screaming in the distance, he heard glass breaking. Then he smelled smoke, and he looked past their captor and saw true horror.

The Shire was burning. The skies were dark with smoke, and everywhere there were Hobbits running and Orcs chasing. He heard screams and saw shattered homes, saw furniture being tossed outside and lit on fire, saw animals being killed as they ran away. He saw Hobbits dying. He saw Hobbits being eaten, saw them being ripped apart, saw them being murdered in cold blood. The fields were alight with fire, and every smial he could see was being invaded by Orcs, who dragged Hobbits out of their small homes and over bodies that were still, so still, just like his father whom he would never see again --

Bilbo screamed and turned to run, and the Orc grabbed his shirt and dragged him back, snarling foul breath into his face, but Bilbo hit him and fought his vicious grip. Then he heard his mother cry out, and something hard hit the back of his head. Finally, he knew no more.

~

When Bilbo woke again, it was to something hard like bone jutting into his side, and the stench of a monster. He shifted in shock, and he realized he was slung across the shoulders of one of the Orcs. As soon as he began to squirm, the Orc dropped him to the ground and muttered something at him. He heard his mother call out his name, and he scrambled in that direction until her arms, freezing from the night air, clutched him close. The Orc only snorted and pushed them both ahead, and onward they struggled.

Bilbo and Belladonna were only two in a large company of Orcs and Hobbits, every Hobbit wrapped in chains or rope, dragged behind Orcs that gave no mercy, no concern for the pained cries and whimpers of Bilbo's brethren. He recognized some of them -- neighbors, family friends, even distant relatives -- and so many of them were hurt, were scared as he was. 

Beside him, Belladonna was silent and fierce, glaring at the Orcs around her as if daring them to come closer. Bilbo clung to her, taking her strength as his, wanting to protect her as she protected him. He could do only that, now.

How had they fallen so far? His father...

No. He had to be strong for his mother.

Bilbo looked around them in dull shock. The Shire had fallen. Darkness hid the blood-bath he feared stretched across the farms and villages, but he heard screams in the shadows that bespoke of the horrors he could not see. Fires dotted the hillsides, burning through homes that had housed so many generations of Hobbits. Each cry, each scream that echoed through that hazy darkness, which shrouded the stars and stunk of acrid smoke, left Bilbo shivering with fear. He tried not to think about what might be burning.

Soon the Orcs began to grunt and growl at each other in that guttural language, and violence nearly broke out before one of the largest of the Orcs snarled at them all. Bilbo watched as the company stopped and dropped their weapons and packs.

Then began the carnage.

Not four feet from Bilbo and his mother, one of their old neighbors was grabbed by an Orc, and hot liquid sprayed Bilbo's face. Belladonna gasped and pulled Bilbo away, but not before he saw the Orc biting into Normac Brown's arm and dragging out a chunk of flesh with its teeth. His mother pushed down his head and held herself over him, and Bilbo heard a tearing sound, accompanied by a shrill scream. Then he heard the hard stomping of an Orc headed their way, and he pushed his mother off and covered her with his own body, huddling them both against the ground in desperation.

He felt claws scrape the back of his neck, before a deep snarl raised his hackles, and he heard a fight break out above them.

_" Za ash-izub kulat!"_ one Orc growled, and Bilbo felt his mother trembling, making him hold her tightly to him. He felt warmth splatter on his back, and abruptly the violent touch ended. Then his rope was grabbed, and both he and his mother were hauled up, to see the Orc who had taken them from their homes. It sneered at them and pulled them away from the rest of the company, which had fallen into violence over Hobbits, who screamed and tried to run as they were slaughtered.

Bilbo thanked every bit of luck he had encountered in his life, and he held his mother close, hiding her face in his shirt and closing his eyes tightly to blot out the screams.

Eventually the Orcs' hunger was sated, for the violence died down and the monsters began to fall asleep, blood on their faces and claws, both black and red. Belladonna refused to let go of him, and the two of them huddled together, bound by rope to the Orc who had claimed them, who stroked their heads sometimes but did not touch them otherwise.

In the morning, the Orcs forced every Hobbit still alive to drink a nasty tincture that eased the burning in their stomach, from eating little and throwing up what they had left inside their bodies. Then they were hauled to their feet, and with empty eyes and shocked expressions, they stepped over bloodied bones and torn clothes, onward into the foggy morning.

Onward they trudged, but they were still in Shire country, for through the haze of smoke and darkness, he recognized the hills that he had always treasured. _Shirefall_ , they whispered. The blackened skies, the burning fields, the blood that ran freely into the waters. The Shire had fallen. The Shire was no more.

They walked for days through the Shire that had fallen. The Orcs gave them water or that foul tincture and let them rest for a few scant hours at night. Each night, a new round of murder and violence began, and so many Hobbits died, to horrific deaths that Bilbo could not banish from his dreams and thoughts no matter how hard he tried. Their numbers never truly seemed to dwindle, though, for more and more Orcs would join the procession, dragging Hobbits behind them. 

After three nights, Bilbo noticed a pattern to the murders. Hobbits who were older, slower, sicker -- they were slaughtered and eaten before everyone's eyes. Any of the Hobbits who were young or plump were spared. Toward the dawn of the fourth night of their procession, Bilbo was struck with a horrific thought. _The Orcs are keeping us for later._

He recognized the tactic from one of his uncles, who was a farmer. Gather young and healthy animals, and get rid of the sick and the weak. Easy to build a stable food source. Easy meat, fresh and alive for whatever nest the Orcs called home. Like cattle.

It made him sick every time he thought about it. But they could not escape. Orcs were always watching, and there were so many of them -- large, violent monsters who leered at them, who murmured _âmbal_ and tried to sneak both him and his mother away from their keeper -- but the monster of an Orc always woke and protected the two of them. Bilbo was under no delusions, though -- there was no mistaking the way the Orc touched both him and his mother.

Belladonna was brave, so brave. She kept him focused when he could not go on. She made him drink whatever liquid the Orcs gave them. She found things along the way -- wild mushrooms, roots, leaves to chew -- and forced him to eat. She held him at night and hummed to him, promised that it would be okay -- but the way she shivered told Bilbo the truth. She was as terrified as he was. No adventure of her youth could have prepared her for this nightmare.

One day, the company came to the Brandywine River, and even though none of the Hobbits had discussed it beforehand, they all knew they could not cross that bridge. To be dragged over that bridge would mark the end of their free days, the end of any semblance of goodness, the end of life as they knew it. Nearly as one, every Hobbit tried to run when they saw the rushing waters. Bilbo grabbed his mother's hand and ran, and the Orcs were all so surprised that most of them let go of the ropes.

But the weakened Hobbits did not run far, for the Orcs were stronger and faster, and the monsters caught their new prey far too quickly.

Thus Bilbo, Belladonna, and hundreds more Hobbits were dragged kicking and screaming across the Brandywine bridge, away from the burning desolation of a Shire that had known violence and death, into the darkness of a future of despair.

To be slaves.

~

Onward they walked, toward the east, toward ever-growing mountains that loomed in the distance and sent fear through Bilbo's heart.

But he did not fall. He did not cry or fall into panic. He did not stray far from his mother, and he did everything he could to help the Hobbits near him. Water, extra roots they found whenever they rested, flower petals for fevers -- anything he could do, anything he could give was theirs. His mother worked just as hard as he did, and always she held her head high, even through the nightly slaughters and the pain in their feet, the pain in their stomachs, the pain in their hearts.

All around them, the lands were destroyed by Orcs. The villages were burned -- Bree was a smoking mess, and the Old Forest was charred and wrecked, ancient trees dragged down to fuel the Orcs' march into the Shire. Sometimes, the Orcs would catch a family of fleeing Men, and it would be those poor people that would be the Orcs' dinner that night. Sometimes it was wild animals, but almost every night, Hobbits died to Orc hunger.

Every day, Bilbo watched these Orcs -- these monsters who had taken them from their homeland. He studied their power displays, the fights that frequently erupted, the way they snarled at each other. So eager to betray each other, for just a bit more power in a vicious hierarchy. He watched them, to look for signs of his people's impending deaths -- and he began to understand them.

A week after they had left the Shire, the great company of Orcs and Hobbits joined with another large group, and it was there that Bilbo nearly lost his tenuous hold on reality. He stopped very suddenly when he saw them standing in the new group ahead, and only the sharp tug on his rope made him move again.

"What is it? What do you see, Bilbo?" whispered Belladonna, pressing her shoulder to her son's side, worried at his pallor.

"Rory," breathed Bilbo, and Belladonna sucked in a breath.

Rorimac Brandybuck, Gorbadoc Brandybuck, and Adaldrida Brandybuck, family to Bilbo and Belladonna. His younger cousin, looking fierce and terrified at once, tied together with his father and grandmother. They were huddled together with several other Hobbits, Bolgers and Boffins and other families that Bilbo recognized, and both Rory and Uncle Gordy were guarding Adaldrida closely. Bilbo realized that this group of Hobbits had many more of the elderly than his group did, and he wondered at the difference.

But he did not think long on the subject, for when the two groups met, the Orcs began to have a great argument in their nasty language. Bilbo began to creep to the side, until he was close enough to the other Hobbits that a whisper could be carried on the breeze.

"Rory," he called, as loudly as he dared, and the three Brandybucks turned as one, and each of their expressions grew horrified when they saw him.

"Bilbo! Bella!" cried Uncle Gordy, covering his mouth to keep his voice low.

"Not you, too," whispered Rory, while Great Aunt Adaldrida stared at him in shock. Bilbo felt his heart clench. What of his younger cousins? What of his mother's sister Mirabella, who was Rory's mother? What of the other Brandybucks? His anxiety must have been written onto his face, for Rory shook his head.

"Mama took everyone and hid. They're not with us," Rory hurried to explain, and Bilbo sagged with relief. If his cousins had died -- if they had touched Amaranth, or little Prim --

Then the Orc tugged impatiently on his rope, and he hurried back to his mother's side, ignoring the way the Orc leered at them.

"Rory said Aunt Mira hid the others away. They weren't..." He couldn't finish, but he was glad for the way Belladonna sagged against him in relief. It was horrible enough to see his Brandybuck family here -- how would his mother feel, to think her sister dead? He hoped that Aunt Mira and his Brandybuck cousins had survived. He could not handle the idea that they were dead.

The Orcs were still arguing. Oh, how Bilbo wished he could understand! But eventually the Orcs seemed to come to an agreement, and the company continued to walk. Bilbo glanced over frequently to watch his family, and he saw Rory looking back at him many times. Both of their expressions tightened with determination. Whatever happened, they would not lose sight of each other.

Finally, the great company of over a hundred Orcs and countless more Hobbits came to a stop. Bilbo huddled close to his mother, waiting for the slaughter to begin anew, but instead of what had become usual for them, the Orcs did not turn the Hobbits into dinner that night. Instead, the entire company was forced to sleep, and the Hobbits were pushed together and watched closely by several guards, the Wargs with them growling every time a Hobbit so much as moved.

Bilbo watched it all, his hands shaking slightly as he stroked his mother's back to help her rest. They were being kept alive -- for what end? Was more livestock, no matter how healthy, better? He did not understand, but he was grateful that no gruesome deaths occurred that night, or any night after.

One night, Bilbo awoke to the near-silent sound of Hobbit feet scurrying beside his ear. He turned his head and watched as one of the Burrow girls picked her way through the sleeping camp, clutching one of the smallest children to her body, her hand pressed tight over the babe's mouth. Bilbo watched them, his heart suddenly beating loudly in his chest, but he dared not move. The girl slowly crept past the last sleeping Orc -- and then she was at the treeline.

_Go! Go! Hurry away from this place!_ Bilbo thought, his heart in his throat. The girl looked back at the camp one last time, and then she was gone, dark curls vanishing into the shadows, the child safely carried away.

Bilbo breathed a slow sigh of relief. He closed his eyes and realized that they were damp, and he turned to hide his face in Belladonna's hair. In response, her slim hands clenched into his shirt, and Bilbo thought he understood.

The girl had escaped -- _but they were still trapped._

In the morning, the Orcs blamed each other for her disappearance, and the resulting fight left two Orcs dead. At other times, deep in the night or just at the edge of morning, other Hobbits managed to escape, but the Orcs began to notice that the missing Hobbits had not become a late night snack. More guards were posted around the Hobbits when they slept, breaking the hope that they could sneak away, like that poor girl. Bilbo looked every night for some way to escape, but his luck was too terrible -- he could not loosen his bindings or find a way to get both him and his mother away from their captor.

They continued to walk. More weeks of helpless terror passed. They were hungry, so hungry, and though the Orcs fed them vile tinctures and let them forage in the evenings, they were starving. Some had died after succumbing to fever, or to their wounds, or if an Orc's lust for flesh grew fervent enough. But still they were kept alive together, and still they walked.

The mountains in the distance loomed closer, taller, until they blocked the sky and the air grew colder. But instead of climbing the mountains, the Hobbits were led, wretched and shaking, into a small vale that held a sudden dip in the land, and at the bottom of this decline was a deep and sinister cave.

Oh, Bilbo did not want to go into that cave. He dreaded it -- he dug his heels into the ground and would not move. His cousin and mother followed his example, and other Hobbits as well, and Uncle Gordy stood in front of them when the Orcs turned back to bark at them.

_" Rûmol!"_ one Orc snarled and stalked up to them, but Bilbo spat into his face. The Orc struck him, and he hit the ground violently, and he might have died that day -- had his mother not stepped in front of him and glared fury up at the Orc who had hurt her son.

"Don't touch him," he heard, Belladonna's once sweet and musical voice cold with hatred, and she might have died, too, if the Orc had not been pulled back by the one who had taken interest in them.

_" Ulu-izub kulut,"_ it snapped at the other, and in an instant it had pulled its great weapon and beheaded the Orc who had attacked them. Bilbo gagged when the Orc head rolled to the ground, retching on the dry grass, and then he was hauled up, their captor clutching him close and growling at the others. _" Nargraurol!"_ it shouted, and the other Orcs backed off, hissing but leaving Bilbo and Belladonna alone. Past the crowd around them, Bilbo saw the pale face of his cousin, hazel eyes fastened to his mother and the Orc.

_" Zaz akashuga kulut thrak Azog-tramurz-û,"_ the Orc announced, but Bilbo understood none of it. The darkness of the Orc's tone and the cry the surrounding Orcs made was enough to make him shiver with fear.

The Orc yanked him up, and he cried out as his shoulder was jostled. He must have injured it in his fall -- but there was nothing for it, as the Orcs were already moving forward, and he was being dragged along with his mother.

"No!" Bilbo cried, and he pulled back against the rope. He would not go into that dark place! He would not go into that terrible abyss! He would rather die -- but then the Orc grabbed his mother and squeezed her until she screamed, and Bilbo reacted without thinking, rushing forward to her side. The Orc laughed and let go, and Bilbo was left shaking, enraged by the easy manipulation, and terrified for his mother, who was shivering from the shock.

"I'm sorry, mama," Bilbo whispered, but Belladonna only shook her head.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, dear heart. Whatever happens after this, we will be brave," she said clearly, her strong voice carrying above the growls and grunts of the Orcs, and the Hobbits around her straightened, taking her words into their hearts and believing them. Then she squared her shoulders and strode forward into the darkness, and the Hobbits followed her, tears trickling over dirty cheeks at the inevitability of their doom.

Bilbo stared at the line of her back, lit by the edge of the sun, until shadow was cast over them all.

~

The walk to the Orc city took a little over two days. The Hobbits were given barely any rest, as the monsters who pulled them along were too excited to care if they had to drag their new pets. On the second day, the Hobbits heard drums in the distance, and these drums stirred the Orcs to even greater frenzy and speed. It was harsh on the Hobbits, who cried in the darkness and began to fight back once more, kicking the Orcs who grabbed them and trying to flee. But they were trapped -- and there was no telling where they could go, except deeper into the shadows.

Then the Hobbits came upon a truly awful sight -- a grand city carved into the caves, lit by countless fires, once beautiful -- but most of it lay crumbling now, the great halls and buildings connected by ramshackle wooden paths and swaying bridges. The cut of the stone marked it as Dwarvish -- but the occupants were Orcs, who sang harrowing songs to the hunters returning with fresh livestock.

As Bilbo trudged toward the largest of the buildings, which must once have been a great palace, he heard a scream, and he jerked his gaze to the side to see one of the few teenagers being dragged off by an Orc. He inhaled sharply and averted his gaze just before the telltale squelch, and he heard one of the Orcs who herded them snarling at the brazen Orc who had stolen a treat.

It did not happen again, but every Hobbit could feel the hunger in the gazes of the Orcs that looked down upon them from around the path that led to the palace.

Then they entered the great doors, and they were led down a long hall into a massive room that arched high above them, ancient Dwarvish carvings shaping the stone walls. In the center of the room sat a massive stone throne, and around the throne were several Orcs with deadly armor and snarling expressions -- but what made every Hobbit shake in terror was the great white Orc that sat upon that throne, idly stroking the thick fur of the white Warg sitting beside him.

He was huge, and every line of his pale, pale body was marred by deep scars gouged into his skin. Bilbo thought it almost looked like artwork -- the lines were oddly symmetrical. The Orc wore nothing but a pelt over his upper legs, unlike the armed Orcs around him, and the strength of him was in the thick muscles of his back and arms, in the height of him, in the power of his heavy limbs. The pale Orc looked up at the company then, and Bilbo noticed his eyes -- the palest of blue, red-rimmed and wicked. He saw the flash of fangs, and when the Warg beside the Orc moved, he saw long claws on that pale hand. The Orc's hand looked big enough to hold Bilbo's head in its palm and crush him.

The Orc looked at them lazily, satisfied with the sight of them. A chill ran through Bilbo -- _they were expected._ Then the Orcs began to speak, and Bilbo understood none of it, but he began to shake even harder, holding on tightly to his mother.

_"Chieftain Azog! Azog the Defiler! Fiercest of Orcs and holder to the old ways! I am Grishhaa of Frîghatrak, your mightiest general and most loyal ally! It was I who first breached the Shire, land of your conquest, and I come to you now with your new slaves -- the Hobbits!"_ cried one of the biggest of the Orcs.

The great pale Orc smirked, his piercing eyes wandering over the crowd of cowering Hobbits. _"They reek of fear, these pathetic Hobbits, but the Defiler is pleased,"_ he said, and something in his voice made Bilbo shudder. It was deep and grating, with a growl that never left his tone, but he sounded so, so pleased -- this Orc, this leader of monsters, had he ordered them to ruin the Shire? Was Shirefall this monster's doing?

One by one, Orcs came forward and bowed low. _Azog_ , they said over and over, kneeling before him and paying him fealty. Azog, this Orc was called.

The Hobbits they had captured were pushed to the side to cling to each other at the edge of the room. Bilbo bit back a cry of worry when Great Aunt Adaldrida was shoved to the floor, and the Orcs began to swarm around her. His cousin and uncle quickly grabbed her and dragged her further into the group of Hobbits, and the Orc who had reached for her leg snarled.

_"The slaves belong to the Chieftain, scum -- unless you wish to suffer the Defiler's temper?"_ one of the heavily armored Orcs hissed, and the Orc let go of Adaldrida. Bilbo and Belladonna both breathed a deep sigh of relief. Quickly she was pulled deep into the group of Hobbits, Uncle Gordy pressing her close to his side. Bilbo's eyes met Rory's, and oh, he wished he could take his mother and family and run -- but as he looked around, he saw no escape. Only doom.

Then the rope around his hands was jerked forward, and he was dragged beside his mother to stand in front of Azog. The Orc who had captured them shoved them to their knees, and Bilbo looked up into pale glittering eyes. He held the gaze of the Orc who had ordered the ruin of their precious Shire, who had caused the deaths of his father and countless other Hobbits, who smirked so arrogantly at them, so pleased with their capture and torment.

He hated this Orc. Though he trembled, though tears trickled down his cheeks, though he felt his mother press close, her small, dirty hands clutching his arm, he glared. Azog stared back, and they might have stayed like that, if his warden had not begun to speak. Those pale eyes left Bilbo, and he slumped against his mother.

Belladonna turned to him and pulled him close, never taking her eyes from Azog. She whispered into his ear, "Whatever happens, you must be strong, dear heart. You must go on." Bilbo could only nod as he clung to her. 

_"Great Azog, great chieftain of our clan, look upon these pretty Hobbits with their golden curls! See this woman -- is she not like the gold that glitters in your hoard? Would she not make a desirous pet?"_ their warden called, and Belladonna hitched a gasp when she was suddenly pulled forward, away from Bilbo.

"NO!" Bilbo screamed, and he reached for his mother, but he was kicked away, and another Orc grabbed his arms. He could only watch as Belladonna lifted her head of long blond curls, dirty yet shining in the firelight, and he felt his breath catch when she glared at Azog. The great pale Orc reached out to touch her curls, the same color as Bilbo's, and then he sneered.

_"She is pretty, yes -- but females are worthless, however pretty they may look. They are traitorous and weak to their passions. See how she glares at me -- she would be the fall of this clan if she could reach a knife. I have no need for her. You, my generals, may have her,"_ Azog said, letting go of Belladonna.

"Bilbo," she whispered, looking at her son with dark, terrified eyes, and Bilbo reached out to her, tears choking his gaze.

"Mama," he whispered, and she gave him a smile, trembling and sweet. She opened her mouth to say something else.

The Orcs with the most armor, including their warden who had dragged them so far from home, gave a great cheer, and Bilbo jerked against the clawed hands that held him when his warden took Belladonna by the arm and dragged her to the center of the room, away from Azog and Bilbo. Those armored Orcs closed in around her, and Bilbo rushed forward again, scrambling against the dirty floor. The Orc holding him grabbed his hair, and he felt his scalp burn with pain, but still he fought to reach his mother. Something roared in his ears when his mother screamed -- and Bilbo screamed with her.

"LET HER GO!" he cried, and then he heard the tearing of clothes. The Orcs descended on her, and Bilbo shook as he heard Belladonna scream, over and over, as the Orcs began to rape her. 

He ducked his head and slipped out of his captor's grasp. He ran forward, the ropes around his wrists digging deeply, then relaxing as his Orc captors caught him again. He fell to his knees and looked up at Azog, tears dripping down his dirty face. "Please," he begged, straining against the Orcs who dragged him back, "please don't hurt her! Please, please spare her! Hurt me instead! _I will take her pain!_ "

The Orcs on top of his mother stopped when Azog lifted a hand. Azog gazed down at him, something glinting in his cruel, cruel eyes, the first light after the blackness of Shirefall -- and not one that Bilbo ever wished to see.

"No," he said simply, and Bilbo let out a cry when the Orcs leapt on his mother again. He begged and pleaded and reached for her, his wrists cracked and rubbed raw from the rope. He cried when her blood ran across the cold stones, firelight glinting on red. The Orcs drew back, laughing and shouting with triumph, but Bilbo looked upon his mother and saw that her eyes were blank, her hand ever reached out to him, as if to pat his head one last time and tell him it would be okay.

But it would never be okay. He trembled, feeling black hate unfurl in his heart as he looked up at Azog the Defiler. Azog stared back at him, and with one pale hand beckoned his captors forward. He was dragged, silent and stunned, to kneel before Azog's throne, close enough to feel the heat of Azog's powerful body.

Azog reached out that pale hand to caress his dirty, bloody blond curls, and Bilbo would grow to despise that soft touch. _" Nûl-lûpûrz-izub,"_ Azog murmured, his fingers closing into a fist around Bilbo's hair, making his scalp burn again. He did not know what it meant -- he would soon grow to hate the words -- but at that moment he felt everything break. He had held himself together somehow, clinging to his mother as they were taken from their home alongside hundreds of other Hobbits, after the skies turned black and Orcs invaded their warm little Hobbit holes -- after everything burned and everyone died. His mother, fierce Hobbit that she was, would not let him fall -- but her death was the end of his tenuous sanity.

His father's corpse lay in the front hall of Bag-End. His mother's corpse lay but a few feet away, covered in the filth of lustful Orcs. Behind him, other Hobbits screamed and cried as they were dragged off to their dooms. Before him sat the Orc who had ordered the fall of everything Bilbo and every other Hobbit had ever held dear. That day Bilbo looked up into reddened blue eyes and felt his heart shatter for the last time.

"I hate you," he seethed, and Azog laughed.

_"This one I will keep, with his pretty curls and dark eyes that hate. You will be my pain-bearer, for you begged so prettily for pain. Oh, I will give you pain,"_ Azog murmured, and Bilbo shivered. The Orcs let him go, and he fell to the ground in front of Azog, gulping shuddering breaths as his back heaved. Azog spoke again, but Bilbo understood none of it.

He heard another shout -- his cousin calling his name. He looked back at the room, at the center where his mother's body lay -- but she was gone, only a stain left where the Orcs had descended on her. The Hobbits were being led away, and the Orcs continued to bow before Azog, leaving him other gifts now -- silver spoons and dinnerware, golden coins and necklaces of gems. The treasures of Hobbits who were now dead.

Bilbo did not move, though no Orc held him and nothing bound him to his place. He slowly crept back, into the shadow of the great throne, and he stopped suddenly when a hand descended, long claws curving gently into his hair. He stared emptily ahead as Azog petted him, his gaze never leaving that bloody stain on the floor.

_Mama._

The shadows stretched, sinister and looming, and Bilbo heard that darkness whisper -- _enrage him, provoke him, make him kill you, what good is it to live now when she is dead?_ It called to him, that oblivion. He forgot about his cousin and uncle and great aunt. He forgot about the children who wept and the Hobbits who cried, who may be dead even as he sat there in Azog's shadow. He forgot about everything else but the stain on the floor where his mother had fallen.

_I want to go with you._

But he could not move. He had nothing within him -- nothing but pain. Nothing but the agony that rent his mind to bleak desperation. Nothing but the memory of his mother smiling at him, seconds before she died at the hands of Orcs. Would she push him away, if he died here and now? Or would she welcome him into her arms and hide him away for all eternity, to lay at rest with her and his father? He could be at peace. He could escape this torment. She would hold him forever -- but he would never again see sunlight, or eat tomatoes off the vine, or lounge under an apple tree. But -- he would never do those things again, no matter what now. There was no way out of this torment, but death.

Still, he did not move.

Those long fingers curled around his head and scraped his neck, and then Bilbo did look up. Time had passed -- the hall was now empty, and Azog was looking down at him, pale eyes fastened to the tracks of tears on his cheeks. Bilbo's gaze hardened, and Azog's lips curled into a smirk.

_" Skaatol, nûl-lûpûrz,"_ Azog ordered, standing and taking the rope around Bilbo's wrists. The meaning was clear enough, and Bilbo stood on shaky legs and followed the Orc.

They walked through a long hall, the white Warg trailing after them. It sniffed at Bilbo and growled, but a sharp word from the Orc made the Warg snort and look away from him. Then they came upon a door held wide open. Light flickered from within, and Azog pushed him inside. The Warg remained outside, but Bilbo heard its nails tapping on the stone floor.

The room was immense in size. The walls were decorated with old Dwarvish carvings, but everything else was Orcish in nature -- the pile of furs at the center of the room, the weapons strapped to the walls, the Orcish clothes and armor that was stacked neatly to the side. There was another door at one end of the room, closed, and this one was wooden, unlike the stone door that Azog left open. 

It was clean. Bilbo was struck by that detail -- and he realized that unlike the majority of the Orcs that he had seen, Azog himself was clean of the blood, tar, paint, and other disgusting substances that most of the Orcs used to cover their bodies. His tall, pale form shone in the firelight, but Bilbo could not look at him. He eyed the pile of furs warily, something darkening in the back of his mind, but Azog did not push him down onto the makeshift bed.

Instead Azog pushed him to the wooden door, and inside a bathroom was revealed. It was just as clean as Azog's room -- for what else could it be, but the bedroom of the Orc behind him? -- and Bilbo was pushed to the large stone tub in the floor. He stood and stared as Azog filled the tub halfway. There was no soap, but Azog's intention was clear.

_" Shaplagol,"_ ordered Azog, and then he left Bilbo alone.

At first Bilbo did not move. Then, slowly, he crept to the edge of the tub and looked into the clear water. No steam touched his face; the water was cold. The tub was decorated with old tiles that formed a mosaic, perhaps of an anvil and fire, but the details were ancient, and Bilbo could not tell what it was. It did not matter.

Maybe he could drown himself.

At that thought, Bilbo slid a foot into the water, and he flinched. Burning cold -- so frigid it left him gasping. But then he put his other foot in, and he pushed himself into the water, taking in the blistering cold in relief. The cold blocked out everything else, even the emptiness in his head, and he sank underneath the water and closed his eyes, face down in the tub. His clothes clung to his body, thinned after weeks of starving in the wilderness. Bilbo accepted the weight of them, and he thought of his mother's embrace.

Silence, blessed silence, and Bilbo drifted, feeling his chest grow tight with pain, the urge to breathe all the more prevalent -- but he wanted to join his mother and father.

Then he heard a shout, as if from a great distance, and something seized him and dragged him out of the water. Dismay rushed through him, followed by pain as he gasped in air. Goosebumps swept over his body as his teeth began to chatter.

"No," he coughed as water got into his throat, and large hands shook him, while Azog shouted at him -- but he understood none of it, and he only glared when Azog finally turned him over. How dare this Orc pull him away from death? How dare he -- after what he had done to his mother?

"I hate you," he stuttered again, and Azog snarled into his face, spit hitting Bilbo's cheek. But he did not flinch, even when Azog dragged him to the bright fire.

_" Flâgît!"_ Azog growled, and Bilbo did not resist when large clawed hands tore his shirt from his body. Then Azog grabbed onto his pants, and only then did Bilbo stiffen and flinch out of the Orc's grasp. He lifted his terrified gaze to Azog, who sneered and said something else, but Bilbo shook his head quickly.

"No," he whispered, and again, louder. Azog reached for his shivering shoulders, pressing a hot hand against Bilbo's neck and stroking his pointed ear.

"I won't," whimpered Bilbo, but after such coldness, the hand was a relief. The heat that surrounded him, from the fire behind him and Azog's huge body in front of him, left him shivering and shaking. He felt angry with the Orc for pulling him out of that sweet darkness, and he hit Azog's hand when it began to pull down his pants. "No! Stop it!"

But Azog did not stop, and Bilbo grabbed onto his pants to keep them up. In response, Azog shoved him to the stone floor and yanked them off completely, and Bilbo wailed, kicking Azog in the chest.

"I won't! I won't! Don't look at me! Don't touch me!" he screamed, and Azog pressed his great hand to Bilbo's chest to pin him down as he twisted and squirmed. And oh, Bilbo struggled, but Azog was so much stronger, so much larger, and he only sat there above Bilbo, staring down at the Hobbit who fought against him. The fire lit up his red-rimmed eyes, and Bilbo saw through his tears a strange fascination on that pale, scarred face. The energy fled his limbs, and he sagged against the floor with a choked sob.

_" Nûl-lûpûrz-izub,"_ Azog whispered, stroking his claws down Bilbo's cheek. Bilbo covered himself, but Azog brushed his hands aside, and Bilbo was forced to look up into that scarred face. He was horrified by that face, by the scars that ran through Azog's lips and over his eyes, by the sinister curl of his nose and ears, by the fangs in his ugly mouth. Those pale blue eyes pierced him, left him trembling, with their cruelty.

"I won't," he whimpered, and Azog's scars twisted as he laughed. He then leaned down and spoke into Bilbo's ear, but Bilbo did not understand. The dark language made his gut burn with fear.

_"You will, and I will enjoy it. You are mine now, pretty halfling."_

Then Azog lifted him and carried him to the pile of furs, and Bilbo's eyes widened, and he immediately twisted to scramble away -- but Azog dragged him back by his leg, and he lifted his other leg to kick Azog in the face. The Orc above him growled, but if Bilbo was going to die the same way as his mother, he would not go without a fight.

"I WON'T!" he shouted, and Azog caught his ankle and flipped him over, that huge hand pressing Bilbo's face down into the furs. They stunk of musk and something foul, and Bilbo retched, his sore throat burning. "No -- I _won't_ \-- _let me go!_ " he cried, and then he felt Azog shoving his legs apart. Something blunt, cold with something slimy, rubbed against his most private place, and he reeled with shock.

"No," he whispered, and louder, and louder again, until he was screaming. He kicked back at the hot body behind him, wriggling to get away, but his foot slipped and then those thick digits slid into him. He froze, and the invading presence moved deeper, pushing harder into him, and then something pierced him inside. Pain exploded in his senses, and Bilbo pressed his damp face into the stinking fur, his teeth clenching until his jaw ached.

_This isn't happening. This is a dream. I'm already dead_ \-- but Azog pressed his fingers deeper, spreading him and tearing him with those sharp claws. It hurt, it hurt so deeply that Bilbo could not breathe -- and he could only weep when the fingers slipped out of him.

This was no dream.

They were replaced with something larger, blunter, and far hotter -- it _burned him_ , and the hand on his head let go to grab his hips and pull them up. He heard a domineering growl that vibrated through his entire body, and he stilled, fear stretching his every nerve. Would he die now? Would Azog have him and eat him alive?

At least, when he died, it would be over. He held onto that thought, longing for that oblivion.

Bilbo lifted his head and looked away from Azog, and he could see the open bathroom door through his tears. He looked at the pool of water longingly, thinking of the cold that had almost taken him away. He focused on that memory of silence, of freezing bliss, and when Azog began to rape him, the memory was enough to keep him separate from what was happening to him.

Oh, but it hurt. He could not quite leave the pain behind. Over and over, that huge, monstrous thing drove into him, and Bilbo could barely breathe -- he could only lay there and take the pain. Azog moved within him, grunting into his ear and murmuring words that stung, and Bilbo drifted in the pain, waiting for the moment when the Orc would be spent.

Azog's heavy body pressed down on him, covering him with heat and the musk of the furs beneath him. A curved nose nuzzled his curls and snuffed against him, and Bilbo closed his eyes and waited for his death. Then Azog bit harshly into his neck, and Bilbo was torn out of his daze. He screamed and began to struggle again, even though Azog was still inside him, and it _hurt_ \-- but he could not fall back into that cold daydream.

No matter how much he wanted to escape, no matter how much he wanted to join his mother and father, no matter how much he desperately wanted oblivion -- he did not want to die!

But then, Azog's fangs slid out of his skin, and a hot tongue lapped against his skin, drinking in his blood. _" Nûl-lûpûrz-izub,"_ Azog murmured into his neck, pressing into him once more, and Bilbo felt burning heat wash over his insides.

It was done, then. He stopped fighting against his rapist and curled in on himself, shaking beneath Azog, even as he felt that invading thing leave his broken body. All across his body, he ached, and he felt tears in his skin and wounds on his legs and arms. His neck throbbed with pain, and he could hardly move without flinching, the pain between his legs was so great.

How did he still live? Would Azog start eating him now? Large clawed hands picked him up and turned him over, relighting every nerve into burning pain again, but Bilbo closed his eyes, swollen and sore from crying, and bit down on his tongue. He would not give Azog the satisfaction of hearing his pain.

_" Gothlab honol,"_ Azog growled, and then he grabbed Bilbo's face and shook him, until Bilbo's eyes opened in fear. He stared up at Azog, whose expression was just as he had first seen it -- satisfied and lazy, utterly content with what lay before him. Black fury swept through him, and he glared.

"I _hate you_ ," Bilbo said clearly, and Azog blinked at him -- then threw his head back and laughed.

Then the Orc spoke to him for some time, and though he did not understand, Bilbo seethed with loathing. Whatever Azog was saying, it meant nothing to him -- and he did not care what it might mean. Azog had taken _everything_ from him, and all was left was death. He closed his eyes briefly and thought of his mother, and then he sat up and gathered himself.

Then he spat into Azog's face, silencing the Orc in an instant. All at once the air around him grew menacing, and in that scarred expression, fury erupted, in the snarl of those pale lips and the widening of red-rimmed eyes. Then Azog reacted, so fast that Bilbo only realized he had been thrown when his head hit the wall and stars exploded in his vision. He gasped, but then Azog was right there, picking him up again and raising a hand. The Orc was snarling something, but Bilbo only heard a dim roar in his ears, and he waited for the pain of death.

Instead of killing him, Azog beat him.

After the last fall of Azog's fist, the massive Orc stalked away from him, and Bilbo lay alone on the floor. He heard Azog's footsteps cross the room angrily, and despite the pain between his legs, despite the massive bruises undoubtedly forming on his chest and back and face, despite the cuts on his hands and ankles and legs, Bilbo crawled to the wall and curled in on himself, shaking until he passed out into oblivion.

~

Bilbo woke to large hands picking him up and carrying him over to the bed of furs. He flinched as his wounds renewed their throbbing, and a vial was pressed to his mouth, a word growled into his ear. He shook his head, but those great hands shook him, until he opened his mouth, and the familiar stinking tincture from his journey dripped onto his tongue. He swallowed and gagged, but the churning in his stomach lessened slowly. The hands left him, and he could only lay there, feeble and weak.

Those hands touched him again, stroking something cold and wet over his body. Azog even pressed the cloth to Bilbo's neck, where he had been bitten. Azog was... cleaning him? Every muscle in his body was sore, and the cloth stung as it brushed against his wounds. He was turned over, and he felt those large hands parting his legs and rubbing a thick cloth against him. Then the presence beside him left, and Bilbo was left to shiver against the furs.

A noise caught his attention, and he looked up to see Azog returning with a bowl of water. He was forced to drink again, but the water was cold and clear, tasting faintly of minerals, soothing to his sore throat. He swallowed and licked his lips, hesitantly peering up at Azog, to find the Orc watching him.

For a moment that stretched thin, they stared at each other, until Bilbo asked, his voice hoarse and scratchy, "What are you waiting for?" Azog's expression shifted into confusion, and Bilbo closed his eyes and let his head drop to the matted fur. "Just kill me already," he said tiredly, and then he waited for the end.

But again, Azog did not choose to kill him. Instead, he felt thick fingers touch his face, and he opened his eyes to stare up at Azog blearily, whose lips curled with amusement. 

_" Narazubizg lat,"_ Azog said to him. _" Nûl-lûpûrz-izub kullat. Dhûlol rad."_

Then, to Bilbo's utter confusion, the Orc left the room, and he did not come back.

The moments stretched in the silence. Bilbo stared at the doorway, his heart thudding loudly in his ears. 

Was there nothing to stop him if he escaped? Slowly, carefully, he pulled himself up -- _oh_ , how he ached, how his arms throbbed, how his backside burned, how his throat stung. He shifted to stand, and a sudden sharp pain pierced his backside, making him fall to the side, a whimper caught in his sore throat. A moment passed, and he pushed himself up, holding in the flinches of pain and limping slowly to the doorway. He peered out, holding himself very carefully in fear of someone seeing him.

It mattered little. Not ten paces from the door sat the white Warg from last night, and Bilbo flinched back when he saw it. What he knew of Wargs, having watched them for weeks now, was that they could outrun a Hobbit far too easily so long as they were not distracted, and that they could rip a Hobbit's arm off in the blink of an eye. He did not dare attempt to flee, not when that animal was so close.

The Warg sensed him there, for it turned its head and fixed one menacing blue eye on him, as if to say, _Do not try to run past me._ Bilbo stepped back out of the doorway until the Warg could not see him any longer, his hands clenched in fists, but thankfully the animal did not follow him.

The bathroom door was still open, so Bilbo crept over to it, finally kneeling down when walking became too much and crawling to the tub. The water was drained, but the faucet dripped every so often. He reached over and turned the water on, after studying the knobs for a moment, then flipped a small tab to plug the basin.

Cold water splashed into the tub, and Bilbo slid down into the basin, wrapping his arms around his legs and hiding his face. With Azog gone, there was nothing stopping him from trying to drown himself again -- but as the water began to rise, Bilbo began to shiver, and he feared that dark oblivion that had given him such comfort last night. Would his mother even look at him if he fell into that darkness and met her again?

_His mother._

"Mama," came the broken whisper, and Bilbo pressed his eyes to his knees, a sob cutting through his sore throat. How would she look at him if he came to her now? How could she possibly love him, broken and bruised as he was? He had been _defiled_. He was worthless, for all that he had done to try to escape.

His mother was dead, and he had done _nothing_ to protect her. Now he was alive, and she dead -- how could he join her, having failed to keep her safe? How could he look his father in the eye again on the other side and _know_ that it was his fault that Belladonna was dead?

He could never go to them. He did not deserve it.

But _oh_ , how he wanted to escape --

_What about Rory?_ his mind whispered, and Bilbo lifted his head, staring blankly into the water. It had reached his shins now, and the frigid temperature was welcoming to his painful wounds, numbing them and washing away the blood.

What of his cousin, his uncle, his great aunt? What of the little Hobbit children who had wailed and cried as they were taken away? What of the Hobbits who had watched Azog with fearful eyes, who had tried to run as he had, who had walked so bravely to their dooms? Was there anything he could do for them? Were they dead already?

He could not die and leave them here, not when he was still alive. He owed that much to his mother whom he had failed to protect. Maybe he could protect them.

He turned off the running water with shaking fingers, flipping the plug tab down again, and then he sat back in the tub and shivered as the water began to drain. Whatever Azog had rubbed on him had stopped most of the bleeding, but he was still filthy. He stunk of the musk from those furs, and he was _so hungry_.

He should have died -- but for some reason, Azog wanted him alive. Bilbo did not understand.

After a while, he pulled himself from the empty tub and limped to the fireplace. There was an old cushion underneath one of the pelts, and he pulled it closer to the fire. It was just big enough for a Hobbit to curl up on, so Bilbo laid his aching body down and rested before the blazing heat, until he no longer shivered, and he drifted into sleep.

~

When Bilbo woke next, shivering on his cushion, several hours had passed, and the scratches from Azog's claws and the bite mark on his neck had begun to heal. The wounds had closed, at least, but they were still an angry red, and Bilbo touched his neck gingerly, flinching to feel such a savage gash. Why had Azog not eaten him at that moment? He did not understand why he was not dead, and anxiety at his survival burned within him, so much that when Azog stepped back into the room some time later, Bilbo did not notice him until Azog was kneeling beside him at the fire.

He yelped in shock, and he was further stunned when Azog pushed a bowl into his hands. The bowl held some sort of grey gruel, but it was hot and Bilbo thought, _I am so hungry_ \-- so he ate the gruel with his hands. It tasted of hard oats, but it was enough, and he set the bowl aside when his stomach was not so tight with emptiness.

The Orc snorted at him and took some time to restoke the fire, ignoring him until the blaze was bright and flooded the room with warmth. Then he turned his pale gaze on Bilbo, and for a moment, they stared at each other, until Bilbo lifted his chin and glared. "Why haven't you eaten me?" he demanded, ignoring the tremble in his hoarse voice, and Azog walked over to him slowly. Bilbo held himself very still on his cushion as Azog set his huge body down in front of him, and he prided himself on flinching only slightly when Azog lifted a hand to run his claws through Bilbo's curls, cleaned of blood but limp against his head. Then the Orc said something in his guttural language, but Bilbo shook within that grasp and did not understand. Oh, how he wished he understood! If only to know what this Orc meant for him!

Azog did not seem to care for his confusion, for his scarred expression twisted slightly. He pointed a long thumb at his chest and said, _" Gothlab Azog kulizg,"_ but Bilbo only stared at him, eyes narrowing slightly. The Orc growled slightly and said again, _"Azog,"_ pointing at himself.

After a long moment of silence, Bilbo said lowly, "I hate you, Azog." He flinched back when that hand suddenly rose as if to strike him, but the beating never came. Instead Azog lowered his hand and leaned in close, breathing in his scent, and Bilbo cringed away from Azog's heat.

_" Lat aanizg zam zrii,"_ Azog murmured. Then he picked Bilbo up and carried him over to the pile of furs. Before Bilbo realized what was happening, he was face down in the furs and Azog was spreading his legs again.

Utter fear swept through him, and he tried to scramble away, but his feet slipped on the fur, and Azog had him pinned in an instant. Azog's thick fingers spread him, and he clenched his teeth and pressed his face to the fur, trying to call back the feeling of last night, of cold bliss. Then that heavy burning heat was pressing into him, and he sobbed at the pain as he was split in two.

"No!" he wailed, but Azog did not relinquish his hold on Bilbo, and he could do little more but tremble beneath that powerful body. Those wicked fangs dragged over the sore wound on his neck, and Bilbo felt the skin open again and blood trickle out, that was quickly sucked away. Why did Azog not just eat him, if he was going to bite Bilbo?

But as Azog pressed into him again, Bilbo was struck with a horrifying thought. _He doesn't want to eat me._

If he had to suffer this excrutiating pain every night --

Soon Azog finished, collapsing on the furs beside him, and Bilbo held himself very still as those large hands rubbed over his back and neck, stroking him like a pet. The touches slowed, and a short while later, Bilbo felt a deep breath reverberate through the Orc beside him. The hand stayed heavy on his back -- but Bilbo refused to stay here beside his rapist.

He crawled, so slowly and silently, until Azog's hand slipped off his back, and he crept back to the cushion. He curled up on his side and stared into the fire, listening to the breathing of Azog behind him, and he began to fear for his future. If Azog did not want to eat him, instead choosing to turn his physical lusts on Bilbo -- how could he live such a life? How could he go on, knowing that every day would be of pain and torment? How could he survive such a nightmare?

He lifted his head and looked around the room, imagining spending an eternity of torment in here. Was this his future -- to sleep in this room and only suffer Azog's pleasure? How had his life changed so much, from that pleasant morning under his favorite tree with his favorite book? His mother was dead, his father long gone, and Bilbo realized in a panic that he could not remember her scent. Was it lilac? She had been baking, that morning, after picking flowers for the table. Lilacs, bright and purple, and the whole smial had smelled of them. Tears spilled over his cheeks, and he wept into his hands, trying desperately to keep his grief silent. Sobs wracked his small body, but he never made a sound.

Soon the tears slowed, and Bilbo thought hazily of joining his parents in death. He shifted closer to the fire, imagining falling into that brght flame -- but then he remembered his Brandybuck family, hidden away somewhere in these halls. He remembered the children who had been _so scared_ , who had to be held every night as they cried so that they would not wake the Orcs, who had clung to him and every other Hobbit nearby in hope of safety and protection. He thought of his old great aunt Adaldrida, who was so tiny already, who had comforted Belladonna when they were near to each other in camp. He thought of Rory who had shouted his name seconds before Orcs dragged the Hobbits away.

How could he leave them? How could he give himself to death when he did not know if they yet lived? If he could reach them, if he could be with them again, if he could somehow protect them -- and then Bilbo knew, deep in his heart, that whatever pain Azog gave him, he could not die from it. Not when there were still Hobbits in these dark caves. Not until he was the last and only Hobbit to survive.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my darling beta readers, kaavyawriting and tribumvirate!


End file.
